


Twenty-three things (that happened between two ticks of a clock)

by SharpestRose



Category: Lord of the Rings (2001 2002 2003)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-08
Updated: 2011-07-08
Packaged: 2017-10-21 03:53:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/220619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SharpestRose/pseuds/SharpestRose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A movie-verse post-quest story. Ripples and echoes as the light fades.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Twenty-three things (that happened between two ticks of a clock)

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Deutsch available: [Dreiundzwanzig Szenen zwischen den zwei Schlägen einer Uhr](https://archiveofourown.org/works/224006) by [SharpestRose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SharpestRose/pseuds/SharpestRose)



The little brass catch gives him pause, unfamiliar under fingertips where it had always been at home before.

Then, after a moment's uncertainty and hesitation, the trick of it comes back. Frodo lifts and turns the little clasp; the glass veiling the clock face swinging back with a protesting squeal. Frodo cannot help but wince at the now-unmuffled tick of the seconds.

A twist of a tiny key, a stilling press of fingers against the sharp black hands marking hours and minutes. The clock is quietened.

Frodo sighs, relieved at the newly-made silence in the study. He wonders how he'll be able to judge the passing of time, now. If time means much once all the clocks are stopped.

  
-

  
He goes on walks, long walks out into the fields where the birds make small noises and soft songs. The sunlight skates against his skin warmly, the brightness of the days making the green grass look touched with gold.

  
-

  
Sam comes to borrow books, re-visiting tales that Bilbo read him long ago. Frodo follows him back down the Hill, the two of them stepping in time and without hurry along the path.

"Stay for dinner," Sam says, and Frodo begins to shake his head. He sees the hesitation and hope in Sam's eyes, and the memory of feeling trails down Frodo's spine. Offering a slight nod, Frodo begins to walk again.

"All right," he accepts. "You should have said back at Bag End, I could have brought wine."

"If I'd asked then I wouldn't have gotten you this far down the Hill." Sam's grin is wry and lopsided. Frodo blinks, then smiles a little in return.

  
-

  
Sam whispers to himself as he reads, difficult syllables in a mutter under his breath. It's like the sound the wind makes through the curtains of Frodo's bedroom at night. Baby Elanor is asleep in the other room, and there's a faint chorus of cicadas out in the garden.

Moving quietly so as not to disturb Sam, Frodo goes to where Rosie is washing the dinner crockery and picks up a tea-towel. Her fingertips are warm and slick from the dishwater as she hands him a mug.

  
-

One morning Frodo wakes up and realises that another winter has come and gone. He has not died of illness or gone hungry, so he must have remembered to wear a jacket and buy food.

He writes down all he can remember, and wonders what it is he has forgotten. It's strange to miss a thing when you can't recall what it was to begin with.

  
-

Sam wakes with a start, disturbing the empty teacup beside him on the wide garden stairs leading up to Bag End's green door.

"Must've drowsed off," he mutters. Frodo is sitting nearby, watching him.

"Yes," says Frodo. "I didn't want to wake you. You looked so peaceful."

Sam smiles, the small laugh-lines at the corner of his eyes crinkling. He brushes a few blades of dry grass off the seat of his pants as he stands up, offering a hand down to pull Frodo to his own feet.

"Think I best be off home, if I'm laying about snoring and all. Do you want to come down for the evening, Mr Frodo? You're always welcome, you know."

"I know, Sam." Frodo does not let go of Sam's hand once he's found his balance. "Thankyou."

  
-

  
He is awoken in the night by the front gate; the thud, pause, thud of it swinging in the breeze seems to echo through his skull.

Frodo lies still and tries to breathe.

The gate thuds again.

Breath. Silence. Thud. Breath. Silence.

Eventually, the sun rises.

  
-

  
He goes walking, and finds himself turning away from the fields. His knuckles rap against the cheerful yellow door and the sound seems such an unwanted intrusion in the still garden that Frodo has turned and walked back up the path before Rosie opens the door.

"Hello," she says with a wide smile. Rosie's smile has always made Frodo's spirits lift. "Sam's gone to see Ted Sandyman about wheat prices." She steps aside, leaving the entryway open for Frodo to step inside. "He'll be back in an hour or two. Sugar in your tea?"

  
-

  
"It must be difficult, living such an ordinary life after the bustle and fun of working in the Green Dragon," Frodo says, watching the way the sunflowers are nodding and swaying in the breeze outside the kitchen window. The cloth on the table is pale blue with a pattern of light green vines and flowers worked into the weave.

Rosie puts down a cork coaster and then the teapot. It looks huge, almost comically so, for Frodo has not made tea for more than one person in a long time.

"I like the quiet," she offers.

  
-

  
Sam always lets himself in to Bag End, now. "I brought back those books, Mr Frodo," or "here's some of those flowers I said I'd cut for you," or "I collected your mail from the letterbox."

"I thought I got the mail today," Frodo says. Sam hasn't got an answer to that.

Sam sets about making sausages and toast for luncheon, humming softly to himself as he moves about the kitchen. Frodo finds that the sound doesn't grate on his nerves as it would from any other voice. It's nice, to be reminded of music.

The food is good, warm and tasty in Frodo's mouth and in his belly. Pushing the windows wide, Sam smiles at the brightness of the day as if it is an old friend. Charmed by the expression, Frodo moves to stand in close and rest his chin on the sturdy width of Sam's shoulder.

They stand together, and as the clocks are all still and silent now Frodo does not know how long the moment lingers.

  
-

  
"Was beginning to wonder if you'd forgotten entirely," Pippin says teasingly as Frodo sits down beside him at the Dragon's corner table. "We've been here three hours."

"He's stopped his clocks, that's why he's always late now," Merry explains. There's a note of concern in his voice, but Frodo can barely hear either of his cousins over the din of the room.

"I'm not late." Frodo sips his mug of ale. Rosie doesn't work behind the bar anymore, and he wonders how he ever dared to exchange a flirty word with her in the days when she was. Were words ever really so effortless for him? "I arrived just when I meant to."

Merry and Pippin exchange a glance, and offer their cups up for a toast with a sigh.

  
-

  
Elanor has learned a few words; her voice is a sing-song and there's an edge of a lisp lurking, threatening to turn her sweetness irritating. She loves to say hello and goodbye to everything, and on more than one morning Frodo wakes to hear the clang of the door-bell as she pulls on the chain and shouts "hello! hello-lo! hello!" in the clearest tone she can muster. Elanor rarely lets her father come for visits without demanding to accompany him.

It's almost her second birthday. Her hair is blonde and soft, and one afternoon she falls asleep on Frodo's lap and sucks at her thumb with an air of utter satisfaction.

  
-

  
Out walking, Frodo sits to rest under a tree. The dappled light on his legs makes his skin look strange, unfamiliar. He falls asleep and dreams, and when he wakes the sun has set and the stars are out in all their silvery brightness above the wood. Frodo thinks of the echo of his feet in the rooms of Bag End, and decides to stay where he is until morning.

He wakes with dew on his face, clammy-cool under the heat of the sun.

  
-

  
"Hello! Hello-lo! Hello!"

The call comes seconds before the sound of the bell, and Frodo blots the ink on the most recent words he's put to paper. He's reached the darkest parts of the tale, and does not mind a respite.

Elanor is in Sam's arms, Merry and Pippin standing either side. They are all so familiar and dear that Frodo's whole heart aches at the sight of them there.

"We thought we'd come walking with you today," Sam explains. "We know you like to go out wandering, and thought you might like the company."

Frodo nods, opening the door wider and ushering them in.

  
-

  
"Pippin's thinking about getting married."

Merry and Frodo have strayed away from the path together, leaving the others to finish the picnic lunch they brought out with them. It's a windy day, and they both carry stout walking-sticks idly. They need no such aids to travel distances on foot, now.

"That bouquet did it, you know how superstitious those Tooks are," Merry goes on. "He's been sending love poetry to his second-cousin Diamond. _Awful_ stuff, half of it doesn't even scan properly."

Frodo bites back a laugh and just smiles instead. "I'm glad. Not about the bad poetry... I'm glad our little Pippin's grown up so well. Times were it seemed unlikely."

"I know what you mean. Thought for sure I'd have him underfoot until I was old and gray." Merry scuffs at the ground with his feet. "That's not what you meant, though, is it?"

Frodo shakes his head. "Not really."

"What about you Frodo? How are you? What plans've you got for the future?" Merry asks. The wind has died down, and the birds are quiet. Frodo rests his walking stick against a tree, for some other hobbit to pick it up one day in the future.

"This and that," he answers.

  
-

  
He's down in the Hobbiton market when he runs into Rosie one Saturday morning. She's wearing a wide straw hat, the sunshine coming through the weave of the brim in such a way as to sprinkle bright gold freckles across her nose and cheeks. She smiles hello, weighing and selecting fruit and vegetables from a stall.

Frodo's own shopping is not nearly so complicated, he has long ceased to be choosy about what he cooks. The bright red skin of an apple caught his eye, but he can't imagine that he'll eat it. Perhaps he should give it to Rosie instead. Elanor can nibble slices of it as she plays with her paints and brushes in the slow light of the long afternoons.

Rosie doesn't comment when he walks up the Hill with her, offering another of her smiles to him as they reach the gate to her garden. Frodo returns the smile, following her up the path and to the bright yellow door.

"Tea?" she asks, and then "Sam told me how to make it the way you like it."

Frodo blinks, smiles. Remembers a time when food and drink were about taste, rather than habit.

  
-

  
The day passes, the pieces of apple all eaten up. Elanor paints pictures in green and blue and yellow splashes on paper. Her parents and their visitor share a bottle of wine, and laughter.

Eventually it is time for good-nights. Frodo walks home at his own particular pace, thinking of the day he's had in the quiet company of the small family.

He sleeps, and does not wake until morning.

  
-

  
Perhaps unwilling to let Pippin outpace him in any competition, Merry begins to flirt and court shamelessly with a selection of cheerful volunteers. Despite the fact Frodo suspects his cousin's heart isn't truly in the game, it goes on for several months.

Eventually one of the girls Merry turns his eye to tells him straight off that he can go duck his head in the pig trough, and he falls into deep and true love with her then and there. It's Fatty Bolger's youngest sister; she does an admirable job of withstanding the full attentions of her would-be suitor for some time thereafter.

Frodo thinks she'll probably give Merry her hand sooner or later, if only to stop the small gifts and the poetry. Some of the metaphors Merry has thought up for why Estella Bolger is attractive make Pippin's own clumsy attempts look like the most lyrical and elegant of elf poems.

  
-

  
Frodo does not see the baby until a week after its birth. The child has thick black hair and clear eyes of a deep blue colour, and tiny feet that kick and kick.

"Your eyes used to be like that," Sam tells Frodo. "They're more greyish now. I wonder if his will pale the same way?"

Frodo can hear Rosie and Elanor playing pat-a-cake outside, the bedroom windows opened wide to let fresh air and light into the small space. The baby yawns, and Sam's eyes crinkle up at the corners as he smiles. This season has been good to Sam, he's all shades of warm browns and golds and coppers; his hazel eyes seem almost to glow with pride and contentment.

"If it's all right with you, I'd like to name him Frodo," says Sam.

"You don't need my permission," Frodo answers. "Though I think I'd rather see him named Sam, truth be told."

"You picked out Elanor's name for her, I'm doing the choosing now." Sam rocks the newly-named Frodo-lad gently. "He is a marvel, isn't he?"

"Yes," Frodo agrees. The light from outside is heavier, thicker, than it was when they first came in. "It must be getting late. I should be off home."

"You're welcome to stay."

"It'll be dark soon."

"Begging your pardon." Sam's voice has a note of amusement to it. "But I think that don't matter as it might with other guests and hosts, all things considered." As if on cue, Frodo-lad begins to grumble for attention.

"I know," Frodo answers. "But still. Maybe another night, I'll stay longer."

Sam's expression of concern is so familiar and time-worn that Frodo feels as if he is still carrying a burden. But this weight is more complicated, stranger, and there is no easy goal in sight for the end of it.

  
-

  
The small carvings on the underside of banisters and in the nooks and crannies of storerooms are still there to trace with fingertips when Frodo visits Brandy Hall. He used to be so proud of them, angular little designs he'd scratched in with his pen-knife.

It's a little like saying hello to his childhood self, to see them again.

Merry and Pippin drag him on a kitchen raid, even though any culinary request could be easily filled by the usual channels. There's something about creeping in and sneaking about that makes the food taste better, they inform Frodo.

Of course, it all ends in disaster when Pippin upsets a large tub of soap flakes on the highest of the pantry shelves. It rains down on them in an avalanche, catching on their eyelashes and getting up their noses.

After a moment of stunned surprise, the three of them begin to laugh.

  
-

  
On this occasion the tablecloth is a blush peach colour, patterned with swirls and coils of tomato-red. There are scones and jam, but neither Frodo nor Rosie moves to take one. Someone down the road is playing on a wooden flute and getting half the notes wrong.

Frodo-lad sits on his mother's knee and bangs on the table-top with a spoon gleefully, making small delighted baby noises at the sounds he's causing. Elanor is on the floor with her paints again, dabbing blurred shapes onto the paper with a look of concentration.

Tomorrow the four travellers will set off again together. It's the first time Frodo's found himself thinking of a morning yet to come for a very long while. The wooden flute stops, leaving only the sounds of Elanor and Frodo-lad in the quiet of the day.

"I shall not return." Frodo speaks softly. Rosie reaches across the table and takes his hand in hers. Her fingers are warm, her smile sad.

"You never really did," she says.

  
-

  
She walks him to the gate, seeming not to mind that her son is now hitting the spoon against her fingers for want of a table. The first of the butterflies have emerged from their slumber, dancing like dust motes in the light.

"Do not tell Sam. I don't want to spoil the time left with the knowledge." Frodo pauses, running his fingertip down the baby's plump cheek. "Live well, little one."

He pushes open the gate, steps through, and closes it. Doesn't yet move to walk away.

"Farewell, Frodo." Rosie leans over the gate and kisses his cheek. Her lips are like waking up under the chequered shade of a tree in summer.

"Are you going?" Elanor asks, running down the path to stand beside her mother. Her face is grave, and Frodo finds himself reminded of Galadriel's wise eyes by this child's gaze.

"Yes, Elanor," says Frodo.

Her expression remains still and serene for a moment, and then she smiles widely. It is as lovely as every one of Sam's smiles all at once. With a smile of his own, Frodo turns and begins to walk away.

"Goodbye! Goodbye-bye! Goodbye!"

Frodo turns back. Elanor is jumping up and down, waving at him. Frodo-lad is trying to reach far enough to hit his sister with his spoon; Rosie sees the movement and plucks the object from his fingers with a laugh.

Raising a hand, Frodo waves to them.

  
-

  
There seems no reason to sleep that night. Frodo spends the time tidying the last odds and ends left in Bag End, the few pieces he has yet to give away. At last, he comes to the clock, the hands still stopped at that second now years passed.

This time the brass catch does not make him hesitate, and the glass opens easily. He winds the key, sets the clock back up on the mantle. After a breath and a heartbeat, the ticking starts up as if it never paused.

Frodo stands by the window, and watches the dawn.


End file.
